


in awe of somethin’ so flawed

by HiddenEye



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Fix-It, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Nudity, in other words: fuck you, it’s not explicit but just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 01:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenEye/pseuds/HiddenEye
Summary: “Hey,” he calls out. “Get up.”Steve pries an eyelid open, aiming an icy glare through the sleep crust on his lashes. Bucky only pokes his forehead. “I’m not going to make your breakfast for you.” He continues.Or alternatively; five times Bucky made Steve some eggs and one time Steve returned the favour.





	in awe of somethin’ so flawed

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta be real with you, chief. This is all very self-indulgent and may not include as much eggs as I mentioned but. BUT. Bucky gets the happiness he deserves.
> 
> Title by Hozier’s Movement.

I.

 

It happens sometimes, when Sarah Rogers’ shifts got a little longer and Steve’s a little stubborn for his own good.

She doesn’t say it, but Bucky knows Steve’s Ma would be grateful every time he pops over to their place with a bag slung on his shoulder, extra clothes and toothbrush and some of those snacks Steve likes packed in it. Sarah isn’t always there to greet him whenever he arrives, where he’ll be facing Steve’s cocked eyebrow and charcoal stained fingers instead. But the next morning, when the crescent moons under her eyes are a lil’ darker and her smiles would be wearier, Bucky knows Sarah Rogers deserve much more than this.

He can imagine working in a clinic would be like when you’re always on your feet, tending to the people who demanded your attention around the clock. The moment she comes back, Bucky would give her space to rest and spend time with her son.

Bucky doesn’t mind going back and forth to their place. He’s done this for a few times now, and Sarah has made him enough beef casserole and pie for lunch that if she ever tells him to fight for her vanity, he would.

Not that she would ever tell him to do that. Steve’s Ma is an angel brought down from the skies. But, if the need comes, Bucky would be ready.

Even though Steve acts like a hostile kitten being abandoned in an alley whenever Bucky steps foot into their house, Steve relaxes whenever he can, and they spend their days together reading up some comics or even watch some shows.

That is, if Bucky doesn’t have to pull him out of a brawl that involves Steve defending his own face and honour against some people who only think they’re as great as they want to make people believe. They hate him because of this. He has a tendency to become righteously bold in places he _knows_ that would end up getting him beaten into a pulp.

Every time Steve goes home with shiny new bruises painted on his skin and scratches that would wound up as scabs on his palms, the chances of Sarah Rogers picking out new white hair in the mirror would be definite later. Bucky, who’s been at Steve’s side since they’ve been younger boys, has made himself a vow in which he would prevent Steve’s early death.

He’s been trying to remind Steve that if the ugly big kids weren’t going to kill him soon, his asthma would. Slow down. Take a breath and exhale through your mouth. At least don’t throw the first punch.

Steve, the hard headed bull he is, only waves him off before he’s shoving a hankie up his nose to stop the bleeding that’s been steadily dripping down his chin and onto his front, making a mess of his collared shirt. Bucky tells him then he looks he’s walked out of a murder scene that’s been going on in a factory. He adds that’s where he’ll abandon Steve if he ever did commit atrocities like that, best friend be damned.

The only thing Steve does is to snort out a jagged bout of laughter before he’s choking on his own blood. Like the dumb teenager he is.

The weather hasn’t been kind to them this morning. Bucky wakes up to pointy elbows jammed into his ribs while frozen cold feet are pushed under the hems of his pants. A mop of blond hair tickles his nose, soft and thin under his cheek, and Bucky huffs out a breath that results the bundle of a human cat to curl up nearer into his space.

“Your feet are freezing,” Bucky grumbles, rolling to the edge of Steve’s single bed to unlatch himself from his friend’s gripping touch. “I told you to wear some socks last night.”

Steve lets out a small groan when the space between them widens, wiggling to chase the warmth his best friend had been providing for him for the whole night with a flop of gangly limbs, making Bucky grunt out in surprise when a hand almost slaps his face. Steve tightens his grip around Bucky’s shoulders, slurring out, “Stop movin’, Buck.”

“You’re like that iceberg that hit the Titanic,” Bucky complains, looking over his shoulder to blearily glare at the top of Steve’s head from where he buries his face in between his shoulder blades. “Cold, pointy, and a nuisance to mankind.”

“You talk too much,” comes Steve’s muffled reply.

“And I can’t sleep again because of you,” Bucky shoots back.

He glances up at the window, where the morning presents itself as a murky grey light that glows through the cracked drapes. It’s still far too early, the sun is barely up, but it’s bright enough for the town to see without having the need to leave on their lights. Cars are already honking away on the streets, the sound of their tires crunching under gravel as they stroll down the road and begin their weekend with what plans that’s been made.

At this time, the Barnes household would be bustling around with breakfast and Bucky’s Ma would call for his sister to come down and help her make his Pa’s coffee. Becca, probably grumpy and still in her PJ’s, would have her eyes half-opened as she helps around with all the food since he’s not there to do it.

Bucky smiles to himself just as something banged against furniture from next door, before one of Steve’s neighbours curses out loud. It’s a holiday for him.

But then, his stomach reminds him that their breakfast still needed to be made, and Steve’s useless by now from how he’s snoring softly against his back with his arms and legs wrapped around him, perfectly impersonating an octopus.

It takes some manoeuvring but Bucky manages to slide down the bed without jolting Steve too much until his knees hit the floor, causing a shiver to rack up his spine at how stupidly cold it is today. Bucky rubs his arms, pushing himself up to stand. “Hey,” he calls out. “Get up.”

Steve pries an eyelid open, aiming an icy glare through the sleep crust on his lashes. Bucky only pokes his forehead. “I’m not going to make your breakfast for you.” He continues.

“Then, make your own breakfast,” Steve grumbles, tugging onto the blanket until he wraps himself fully in it, allowing his annoyance to be seen in the furrow of his brows while the scowl he wears is covered. “Let me sleep.”

Bucky shrugs, straightening himself with a stretch of his arms above his head, grunting when his limbs pop under the strain. “If you burn anything, I won’t help you.”

“If it makes you happy.”

Bucky lets his arms fall to his sides with a _slap_. “Last chance.”

Steve doesn’t reply, merely rolling over until he faces the wall.

Bucky shrugs, making his way towards the bathroom. “Suit yourself.”

It’s taking a piss, washing his hands and face, brushing his teeth. And then, Bucky’s whistling loudly one of the tunes like his Pa always does when he’s polishing his boots, making a point to pass Steve’s bedroom instead of cutting the track to the kitchen. He can hear the way Steve hurtles one of his pillows out of the door, where it hits against the opposite wall with a muted _thump_ before dropping to the floor.

Bucky snickers, already taking out a container of butter from the fridge before he gets to work.

He lets the groove of letting his hands work wash over him entirely; it’s hearing the way the pan sizzles as he slides a small cube of butter onto the surface, it’s hearing the way the eggshells crack when he taps them against the edge of the pan and pour two of them into it easily. It’s watching the way they cook into perfection, the yolks smooth and well-contained in their orange circle, the smell delicious and mouth-watering.

As Bucky lets the large sunny side up slip into a plate, he thinks working at the arcade while flipping burgers and making toasted sandwiches has made him good at making sure his food are in perfect condition. Nothing too raw, nothing too hard to the point of it being rubbery. It also tells him it’s the reason why his Ma likes to ask some help from him in the kitchen at most times.

What he likes about working is the extra dime he gets from all the hours he‘s been behind the stove. The most he’s gotten is during the summer, where families are bigger then and everyone would want a bite of some food from the stall he’s working in. The manager said something about their revenues shooting up after all the burgers they’ve sold, increasing their salary by a dollar at most, and the tip they’ve gotten from the crowd has always made his coworkers smile a little wider before they went home.

Bucky can’t help but be a little proud of what he’s done, of how he’s able to see the bliss on the customers’ faces the moment they take a bite of the food he made. All the money he earns would be kept in the jar that’s starting to overflow, and he’s still going over his head on what to buy with it.

He’s breaking another couple of eggs onto the pan when Steve comes shuffling out of the bathroom to make a beeline towards the toaster, using the heel of his hand to rub the sleep away from his eyes completely.

“Oh, so, you’re finally up,” Bucky says, grinning. Steve only lets out a grunt, toasting some bread for them to eat with their eggs. “I was beginning to think you’re going to mould yourself to your bed. Like moss.”

“The smell got to me,” Steve admits, tugging onto the fridge door and pulling out a box of orange juice. Then, he reaches for a couple of cups from the cabinet. “I was hungry the moment the eggs hit the pan. It was enough to get me out of bed.”

“Look who’s cooking them,” Bucky says with an arch of his eyebrows. Steve scoffs. “Anyway, I thought the bacon would’ve woken you up the moment I’d start fryin’ them, but you’re here now. You can make yourself useful by helping me.”

Steve pours some juice into the cups until there’s nothing left in the carton, before he chucks it into the dustbin. “Yeah, yeah. Think you could do some baked beans?”

The pieces of bread jump out with a _ding_. Bucky points at them with the spatula. “Spread some butter on those two first and then we’ll talk about beans.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve brings their juices and bread to the table before he sits down, stretching forward for the butter knife Bucky’s left after using it for his eggs and starts swiping some butter onto their toasts.

Bucky slides the first sunny-side up to him. “Here ya go, sweetheart, all nice and warm just for you.”

Steve bats his long lashes at Bucky in response, hooking his chin onto his palm with the knife still in his grip. The corners of his mouth hook up into a flirtatious smile. “Oh, honey, you shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, but darlin’,” Bucky tuts, waving the spatula near his face to mime a playful swipe near his nose. “You’d be dead as a sewer rat if you don’t put some meat onto that bones. We can’t have that now, can we?”

Steve lets out a bark of laughter with a throw of his head. “You’re a jackass, Barnes.”

“Right back at ya, Rogers.”

 

* * *

 

II.

 

It’s only a matter of time before they have to leave, before the sun would rise again and they would pick up what they left off to face what they’ve signed up for. It’s looking at the demon in the eye, swing their weapons into its grinning cackling mouth, and they would claim victory in the halls of peace some have begged to be in.

At least, that’s what these people are promised. At least, this is what Bucky would want to happen. A swift merciless encounter with little casualties on the way. Nothing else would come between them and their goal, and nothing else would ever consider stopping them from ending this monstrosity humankind has made from their greedy, greedy pride.

It doesn’t happened like that, though. It hardly ever goes smoothly like that when they’re marching into a big crater full of their darkest nightmares no one in their right mind would ever go.

Bucky‘s hand hasn’t stop shaking.

It starts when they’ve strapped him to the cot. It continues on when Steve burst through the door with a new body and a new uniform that it takes Bucky a second too long to realise this isn’t just another snake waiting to strike. But, he recognises the ferocious gleam in his eyes when Steve looks down at him, the taut pull of his mouth when he frees Bucky out of the bonds Hydra seem so insistent on getting him into.

Bucky’s hand hasn’t stop shaking when the people they call friends and comrades cheer for the victory Steve has held above their heads. For the hope that this man has planted deep in their hearts when he finally shines as the one he’s been aching to be his whole life. To be reliable. To be someone anyone can trust when the whole world has a knife pressed to its throat.

A perfect candidate to lead an army into war. A perfect man for them to look for when things go shit sideways.

Bucky wants to laugh. Steve doesn’t need to be big and bright as a dancing clown to be as good as he already is. He doesn’t need to prove himself to be as good as the title suggest.

But, people listen to him as Captain America. People listen to him when he’s strong in their eyes, when he’s giving orders with the shield’s hulking present for all to see. It’s a statement, one of the Howlies would joke once they’re all seated around the table. It’s easier when you have something to brand on before latching on it like a babe. Steve here? He’s the brand. We’re using him to make a bigger statement against all those fuckers and hope that they run back to the same hole they came from.

And they laugh and laugh as if the world isn’t as bad as they know it is. Bucky would join in, tuck his hand under his coat, and use the other to take the bottle of rum they’ve been passing around.

It’s easier this way. It’s easier if they don’t see how he’s still aching from Zola’s jabs and breathing a little heavier from all his drugs.

It makes him harder to fall asleep, forcing Bucky to stare blankly at the ceiling as he feels the thrum of his heart in his ears, the sound of his breathing escaping past his lips in harsh hisses. Everything is too loud then, deafening to the point he throws his blankets off and pushes himself out of his bed.

The white noises that rings in his ears echoes with the same range of the cathedral’s bells; they ring, and ring, and ring, far up the high ceiling and against the glass windows, covering the floor and occupying the seats, until Bucky doesn’t have the space to himself like he used to.

It’s ruining his life in ways it shouldn’t matter.

He goes to his kitchen, takes out whatever’s left of his eggs and flour and milk he has in the cabinets, and starts working.

It’s four thirty in the morning and he has to leave with Steve and the rest of the team in an hour, but he has to make his hands touch the sense of normalcy first, because diving headfirst into the inferno that would most likely kill them all later aggravates the ants that crawl under his skin. It’ll be cold in the Alps, and it’ll be dangerous. Something warm to contradict all of that would put his senses at ease for the time being.

Bucky lets the mechanics of working on the stove again sweep him off the plane of reality until there’s a knock on his door. He glances up from his seventh flapjack, the blood in his veins threaten to jump out of his skin; he doesn’t know how long he’s been in his own limbo. Forty minutes probably have passed and he wouldn’t have noticed. But then, he’s sliding the flapjack onto the rest of the stack and switching off the stove.

When he opens the door, the first thing he sees is the star hidden underneath the coat worn over it, before he’s tilting his head the slightest bit just to meet the bright blues he’s had the pleasure of seeing for the past years they’ve been friends.

Steve immediately takes note of his appearance, straightening his back with a worried furrow of his brows. “Buck? You alright?”

Bucky has to remind himself not to let anything too obvious be shown, before allowing a shrug to take place as he steps aside to let Steve in. “I was making breakfast.”

“Really?” Steve says, eyeing the flapjacks and the eggs on the counter. The moment Bucky locks the door again, Steve looks up to meet his gaze. “Did you sleep okay?”

It’s hard to believe that only months ago, Bucky had to say goodbye to him just after he got promoted to Sergeant. That Steve, despite Bucky’s warning not to barge into situations that could endanger himself, had the gall to cheat his way into the army as well as volunteering himself as an experiment rat to be used on by scientists.

It worked, in the most strangest ways. As if miracles still happen and now, Steve is walking around town with a shield on his back and men waiting for his orders.

This has to be, by far, one of the foolish things Steven Grant Rogers has done in his life. And that’s the _only_ time Bucky isn’t there to stop him.

The disbelief and affronted anger that whirls underneath his sternum is still present at times, before Bucky swallows it down to not show Steve how this is effecting him. He isn’t proud of it, hopes no one sees it and interpretes it the way Bucky doesn’t want it to be. Steve doesn’t need this when Bucky’s support is more important.

“Not really,” Bucky confesses, allowing his lips to twist into a half-smile when the frown on Steve’s face turns sharper. “Since we’re about to meet our deaths in less than an hour, the jitters probably gotten to me already. So, I decided to distract myself.”

He waves towards all the food he’s made, and Steve still looks as if Bucky just told him not to fight the big bad kids anymore. “Did it help?”

“As much as it could.” Bucky picks up the bowl of flapjack mix, scrapping the remaining left as he pours it onto the pan. “And I thought we’re supposed to meet with the others at the jeep.” Bucky switches on the stove. “Not that you’re not welcomed here.”

“I thought of swinging by to see how you’re doin’,” Steve explains, leaning against the counter beside him, one hand holding onto the edge. The sear of his gaze burns a hole through the side of Bucky’s head. “After everything you’ve gone through, I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says lowly, ignoring the way his chest tightens. “I can still fight, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s not it,” Steve says. Bucky only keeps his eyes on the pan. “You got kidnapped and tested against your own will by the same people we’re about to face. I know this might be hard for you, but I wanted to let you know that I’m here if things didn’t go the way it should be.”

 _That’s new_ , is the first thing Bucky thinks. New, as in things used to be the other way around. It used to be Bucky who looked after Steve, who made sure he had someone to confine to because carrying several illnesses in one body can be physically as well as mentally taxing on some days. Bucky has seen it with his own two eyes when Steve used to have trouble breathing and keep getting high fevers for four days straight.

He doesn’t know how to make of this. It warms him to know that Steve thinks of him first before they jump into the unknown, but whatever Bucky is feeling shouldn’t be top priority at the moment. They have bigger things to face. If he’ll be bringing home more nightmares later, then that’s on him.

“I’m fine.” Bucky flips the flapjack with a flick of his wrist, allowing a golden colour to face up. “If I’m not, I will be. We just need to get this over with.”

“Bucky—“

“Steve,” he cuts him off, and it’s meeting his gaze again just to establish something between them. “Trust me.”

“That’s the easy part,” Steve tells him truthfully, and Bucky feels the way his heart jumps at such statement. “It doesn’t stop the fact that I can’t help but be worried about you.”

Bucky shoulders him aside to reach for the plate of flapjacks and letting the last one drop on top of the pile. And then, he’s letting a stream of water run across the surface of the pan that steam comes wafting between them.

“Tell you what,” Bucky starts, once he’s knows he has a better grip of his own self. “I’ll stay by your side throughout the whole way, so that if you ever see me going a bit looney anytime soon, you’re welcome to whack me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve objects, clearly upset by the idea. Bucky picks up the sponge from the soap of container. “I’m trying to make sure you’re okay.”

Bucky begins to scrub the pan and the other dishes he’s left in the sink to wash. “Maybe a little violence would go a long way.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

“Maybe it does,” Bucky ventures, and it’s swinging around to face him properly with his hands dripping with soap and his throat threatening to close up his airways. Steve only looks back at him, eyes widen in surprise. “Maybe it would’ve been the only way. What would happen then?”

The thought of the serum Bucky’s been used on taking effect later has crossed his mind before, that the only reason he’s more anxious is because the serum is taking its time in his bloodstream before they’ll make him do something he doesn’t want to. It has done nothing to him but make him look over his shoulder for any men in rubber gloves and insidious intent, and he’s tired. He wants this to end.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” Steve counters in a firm tone, because he insists on thinking that he can protect Bucky with his new shield, and that makes Bucky tighten his grip onto the sponge. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The pig-headed behaviour Steve wears like his coat can be so astounding; Bucky has passed the need to throw his hands in the air for years now, though. This is what Steve believes he can do, and if Bucky tries to make him see reason despite the outrageous denial sitting on their faces, it will cement into something permanent before he has the chance to. It’s hard to change Steve’s mind once it’s made up, and it isn’t any different now even if Bucky’s in the mix.

He does hope that his insecurities about himself are just ridiculous amount of paranoia — that Steve is right all along, that nothing would be directed to him and would want to kill him.

But, his nerves are still alight. His skin is still prickling with the growing presence of imminent doom, and the hair on the back of his nape still stand to the tip at how everything just screams _this is it, now or never_ on repeat.

His hands are still shaking, but that doesn’t stop him from reaching up to grab Steve’s face and pull him in for a harsh kiss.

It’s how Steve stiffens in surprise, how Bucky doesn’t do anything else other than just press their lips together that their teeth almost collided at first contact, his wet fingers pressing into his cheeks while they stand in the middle of his dingy kitchen. And then, he can feel the way Steve is starting to realise what they’re doing and tries to soften the blow, one hand circling lightly around Bucky’s wrist, the other holding onto his hip.

That’s when Bucky leans back to break the contact. That’s when he gasps out a breath, heart thundering against his eardrums, lips tingling from the plush touch of Steve’s mouth and how he had the absolute gall to kiss the man he’s been calling his best friend all his life.

When Steve chases after him, Bucky slides his thumb to the side and presses it onto his lips, stopping him. Steve blinks at him in confusion, and Bucky’s reminded of the dog Becca used to want so badly from the pet store. “And that,” he rasps out, noticing how Steve lets his eyes wander to his mouth. “Can wait for later. Since you’re so damn sure nothing is going to happen to me.”

The hand Steve uses to hold onto his arm slides lower until it touches his elbow. And Bucky, despite the stern demeanour he gives out, almost gets air vacuumed out of his lungs when Steve cuts the space between them by taking a step forward.

It doesn’t help that he’s bigger now, it doesn’t help that Bucky wants nothing more than to continue that kiss when he’s watching the same need glinting in those eyes. God knows they can’t have this now, not when they’ll be running through the battlefield with guns aimed into their eye sockets in less than the time they needed.

“It’s a promise,” Steve murmurs, pressing another gentle kiss onto his digit that Bucky glares witheringly at him.

“You keep telling yourself that, Cap,” Bucky says, letting go of him entirely before he side steps Steve. His touch still lingers on his skin. “Help me finish these eggs off? I think I made too much food.”

 

* * *

 

III.

 

He doesn’t remember a lot of things he’s done.

The decades haven’t been kind to him, that much he knows. He remembers what Hydra has done to him to make him robotically obedient in following their orders, programming him to make sure he doesn’t betray them into doing something they don’t like.

Having a whiff of his own memories makes them angry. That’s one of the first few things he finds out in the first decade he’s been under their thumb; to see into his own life and to scrutinise it with his bare hands.

There had been a time when he doesn’t understand why they would be so against at the notion of him finding out about himself, to see the glimpses of images he’s done throughout his life that they insist of erasing his memories every time he has to be put back into the cryopod, and every time they pull him out. Before he has the time to think it over, before they manage to put more serum into his veins, they put a device on his head and he’s forgetting about it the next second.

 _Wipe him._ And they have the Soldat by the clench of their fist.

It’s a dark haze of numerous deaths and blood on his hands that would’ve drenched an entire city with its volume. He wishes he could remember the screams that would surely come with it, but he considers it a mercy to not recognise their faces, their terrified sounds, and the pungent smell of dark red in the aftermath.

Sometimes, in his sleep, their terror would come back to him in echoing octaves. They would beg for mercy, or they wouldn’t even suspect anything before the muted _thump_ of his sniper would’ve made the first contact into their chests, their heads. His finger still burns from how he presses onto the trigger, and his mask feels constricting against his nose and mouth.

For decades, the film that covers his eyes prevents time from being an aspect of his life — he kills when he’s needed to and he takes what they’ve ingrained his brain to take. He works fast and efficient, he works without the knowledge of others and he works without anyone seeing his face.

That is before he’s assigned to take out Captain America. That is before the Winter Soldier dives after him when the helicarrier collapses underneath their feet.

 _Bucky_ , the Captain would plead, battered from the cold metal of his fist and bloodied from the slash of his knives. _Bucky._

It’s gotten him into trouble the first time, when he asks about the man with the shield, the man who’s made him _paused_ in his work. Pierce immediately puts the device back on him to wipe his memory until the numbing throb of nothingness occupies the expanse of his mind. He is the Winter Soldier again, and his new mission consists of killing the Captain and his friends instead of letting them be the obstacle between his goal.

But, seeing those blue, blue eyes beg for him to remember this man he’s pinned underneath his grip, to remember himself and what he means to this man called Captain America has unfurled him more than he realised.

He understands why Pierce had been so adamant on making sure he doesn’t walk into his missions with images of his past played through his head; he doesn’t have the privilege of any normal person to reconcile those when his only purpose at that time has always been singular. They can’t afford to have him in a different way. The cycle repeats over and over again until they say it’s time to stop, until he’s dropped the bone they’ve tossed by their feet, until they say he’s done a good job and pulls him back into the kennel.

They have to keep him on leash. One misstep that allows him to have a sense of consciousness on his part, and then there’s a chance he’ll bite through the chains that are clamped around his neck and yank onto them until he would escape.

He did escape, eventually; only the place that kept him had burned down and the people within it are dead. He’s free. He’s free, and for the first time in seventy years, he’s completely and utterly alone.

Bucky — he’s come to the terms to address himself with the name that’s been torn out of the Captain’s mouth before he falls, who’s only fortunate that he’s still alive when Bucky saved him from reaching to his death.

Bucky pulled him out of the water. Bucky lets him live against the earthy sand as he runs from the people who would lock him up on sight.

Eight months have passed since he walked out of the river, drenched from head to toe while he drags Captain America’s weight to the shore. It’s been eight months since his flesh arm got healed from the fight both of them tumbled into, their lives on the line, the world crying around them. Bucky runs and hides his way across the world in order to be invisible, tries to not be as inconspicuous as he can when he has his arm made entirely out of metal.

Eventually, he finds a place to stay, just to keep him warm and to stay out of the rain when the days got a little too grey. The weeks he stayed on the streets had been nothing short he can’t handle, since he’s had missions where he has to be alert at long hours at a public place. But, the apartment he’s been graced with is one of the first pleasures he earns on his own since he escaped from Hydra’s eagle-eyed attention.

It’s having a job by the convenience store ten minutes from where he lives, it’s having his own place to stay despite how painfully bare it is. It’s having his own bed, his own bathroom to wash up, his own living room to sit in.

It’s enough. He used to have nothing for himself, but with all of these in his possession, it’s enough.

Everyday, before he goes to work in the morning, he switches on the news with a small hearth of hope glowing dimly in his chest. Everyday, when he doesn’t feel like the world is punishing him for doing the things he’s done, he searches for Captain America through the headlines and hopes he would remember the same vital information the man in the suit wants him to remember.

The Smithsonian helps, sometimes. Bucky goes there and looks at the pictures and reads what they want the people to know about the war, about the Howling Commandos and the service they gave. The speakers would blare them out and Bucky avoids the tour guides and their tour groups as he lingers at the back. At one point of time, he would stand in front of the picture that has his face, but isn’t him in mind or soul, and wonders how Captain America would ever think this man is him in any way.

Bucky finds out that Captain America’s real name is actually Steve Rogers.

He doesn’t read this from the Smithsonian, he refuses to read anything about him there. He doesn’t read this from the brochures they give out when one exits that part of the exhibit. Bucky’s been quietly shelving the new packages of snacks at the back of the store, and the manager just informed him that it’s one of the old ones that they brought back, when the memory comes to him in a blinding white flash that has him dropping to his knees.

The girl who always share the same shift with him is busy at the cashier to notice him on the ground, breathing heavily through the clench of his teeth when the sound of Captain America —no, _Steve Rogers_ ’— voice comes thundering in his ears as if he’s lightning himself. He’s calling his name, Steve Rogers is calling his name and talking about everything at once and _it hurts. Everything_ hurts and Bucky wants to hurl himself out of the shop and _run_.

“You alright back there?” The girl, Margo, calls out.

Bucky closes his eyes, heaves in a deep breath through his nose before he slowly unlatches his hand from crushing the box in front of him. His gloves cover his metal fingers, but he still shoves it into his pants pocket as he slowly stands up. “Dropped a packet.”

“Oh, I thought you fell or something,” she says. Bucky doesn’t see her from where he’s behind a shelf, but he can hear the relief in her voice. “Carry on then.”

She’s only seventeen, looking for extra cash for college. The only odd thing she’s experienced is when Hulk landed in front of her to crush a vaulting alien ship coming her way. Bucky doesn’t want to change that experience by letting her know she’s been working with an assassin for the past few months.

He puts back the snack into its place, trying not grind down on his molars too hard, when he notices that the snack he’s been handling with is the same brand he used to bring to Steve’s house when they’ve been younger.

Bucky almost drops the packet again.

He keeps a notebook after that incident, having one with him at all times and writing down what he remembers. It isn’t much, but his mind is still healing, even if slowly. He keeps pictures from the brochures he took and cuts them, pasting them in his book, and writes his own little notes on the sides. He hopes it’ll jog his memories faster, but sometimes he’s afraid he’ll pick things he has no intention of going through again.

One particular memory sticks with him the moment he has a glimpse. It doesn’t leave him when he tries to forget about it, latching onto him like a barnacle unless he does something to scrape it off. 

He waits until people have left and the Smithsonian closes for the night. He waits until the guards make their last round of security check, their flashlights glaring away from where his hunched figure hides in the shadows. And then, Bucky slinks down from his hiding place, hoodie up, a paper bag held tightly in his hand as he quietly makes his way across the floor.

He ignores the man with his face, goes straight to the wax figure of Captain America at the edge of the hall. When Bucky stands before the figure, tilting his head to let his eyes fleetingly study its face, he thinks that the people who succeeded in making it look like the real man himself should be given a raise. It looks exactly like Steve Rogers, nose and the shape of his eyes and all; Bucky’s been near him enough to know how he looks like up close.

Licking his dry lips, Bucky glances at the paper bag in his hand. And then, he’s letting it settle near Captain America’s boots before he quickly leaves, knowing how the security cameras would film this either way and see a man in a dark jacket and hoodie leaving supper for Captain America.

For some reason, the itch under his skin subsides, and Bucky would never thought it’s because he remembers cooking some eggs for Steve Rogers seventy years ago.

The next morning when he comes in for work, he must have looked different, because Margo is smiling around the lollipop she has in her mouth as she helps him open up shop. “Something good happened last night?”

Bucky hesitates for a second, before he gives out a small shrug. “I guess.”

“That’s nice. Is it nice?”

It lifted the weight off his chest. He considers that as an accomplishment. “Yeah.”

She smiles a little wider. “Well, I’m happy for you.”

Bucky doesn’t remember anyone saying that to him before. He makes a mental note to give her something for her birthday later.

 

* * *

 

IV.

 

“I’m fine.”

Bucky sees how the line of his jaw tightens at his words as Steve presses against him. But, the arm he has wrapped around Bucky’s waist is careful, gentle, as they limp towards the helicarrier they came with. “Like hell you are.”

“Steve,” Bucky says softly, and the soot and blood that paints them both is a layer of grime and guilt that would not come off for days, or even months. He’s resigned to this kind of fate a long time ago. “I’m okay.”

They avoid the biting winds by stepping inside, away from the snow and the destruction they’ve left back at the facility, away from all the wrongs they’ve committed and what doom they’ve planted between themselves.

Stark is probably still in there where they left him, left with the shield that once brought armies to wars over the years since it’s been melted out of the ice, winning them those wars and giving the world hope on being safe time and time again. It’s useless now that Steve doesn’t want it, traded to save Bucky’s life the moment he drops it under Stark’s barking disappointment. No one else would dare wield it though, not when Steve is still wearing the suit and the very righteousness that comes with the name flares a bonfire inside of him.

As Steve helps him sit on one of the chairs, Bucky knows the felonies he did over the years would bite him where it hurts and spit the huge chunk of his sins back into his face. The fight at the airport proves that. Stark’s rage proves that. And as he watches the way Steve tries to hide his pain when he glances at his missing arm, Bucky thinks it would’ve been better if Hydra should’ve killed him the moment he started disobeying them.

This wouldn’t have happened if it isn’t for him. His presence stirs the pot until others have the right to be as anxious as such. Steve isn’t making things any better when he decides he wants to save Bucky from their touches instead of thinking rationally like Captain America is supposed to do.

Breaking the team on favour of scouring through the earth to find Bucky? Irrational. Insisting on turning a deaf ear to hundreds of governments on favour of having a free will to fight? Prideful arrogance.

“We should get going to Wakanda now,” Steve says, going around and starting up their engines, closing the gaping door that the gentle howl of the wind gets cut off halfway. It’s only them at the moment; secluded in this tiny machine while something beeps mutedly at the background, the world outside white from where Bucky is slumped against his seat. Steve rips off his helmet and tosses it somewhere to his right, where it hits something before rolling into the corner. “Get you patched up quickly. And leave this place.”

“We still have to wait for the King,” Bucky points out, readjusting his position with a small grunt. Steve glances at him for the small sound, clearly still jumpy from their fight with Stark. “We need his permission to go in, and that’s going to take a while. We have to wait.”

“I can’t leave you like this, Bucky,” Steve protests, his shoulders taut from where he’s hunched over the consoles. “We need to go. Now.”

“I’m not in pain in the same way you want yourself to believe,” Bucky explains. “Once T’Challa’s done handling his business, we can go. I can wait. It’s the least I can do after I started all of this.”

That makes Steve turn around, a vicious frown on his face. “You didn’t start all of this.”

“I was partly the cause of it, at least.”

“That’s not true.”

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, and it’s like he’s chiding him again from how strung Steve looks, refusing to back down. “You need to get it in your head that everything I’ve done has consequences. You can’t always turn blind to the fact that it will get ugly in some ways, and I deserve some kind of punishment.”

“Whatever you did all those years ago was not you,” Steve insists, marching towards Bucky until he’s standing by his side. “You didn’t mean any of it because you were _brainwashed_ , Buck. Any treatment you think you deserve doesn’t have to be cruel.”

“This is not it, then.” Bucky lets out a breath of laughter. “Waiting ain’t cruel, doll.”

The words and the way Bucky says them causes Steve to take a step back. Slipping into his old accent might have come a bit of a surprise to himself as well. But for once in his life, Bucky is thoroughly and achingly tired that he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for another decade or two. Steve should join him. Take the desperately needed break.

Bucky knows he won’t accept the offer. There are too many things that needed to be done, where his attention is needed most. Physically putting down the shield doesn’t mean Steve is giving up Captain America entirely.

Steve drops to his knees then, and it surprises Bucky so much that he almost reaches out to him with his metal arm before he remembers it isn’t there anymore. The ball rolls uncomfortably against his throat, and he swallows thickly around it when he straightens himself in his seat. “What are you doing?”

It comes out quieter than he wanted it to be, guttural around the edges. Steve only shakes his head, and he’s holding onto Bucky’s leg as if his life depends on it, long fingers wrapped around his ankle while his refuses to look away from him.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Steve utters softly, and the air around Bucky might as well be poison from how it hurts his chest, wringing out his lungs with a violent twist of unseen fists. “Not again. Not after everything you went through.”

Bucky licks his dry lips, lifting his other hand to let his fingers sail through the ruffled blond locks that had been buried underneath that helmet, causing Steve to close his eyes — as if Bucky’s touch is the best thing that has ever happened to him and he’s relishing this the way he wants it to be; grovelling by Bucky’s feet, face tilted to him and only him.

It makes his heart weep for the years they’ve missed, for everything that’s been stolen from them in such manner of violence and greed that they aren’t able to stop it from ever happening to each other. Bucky wants to blame the Fates with his fist shaking to the skies, but such things are meaningless to the prospect of living when they have always, and only will be, pawns to this life.

If there is a way to reverse time and change a huge incident where they’ll be living their lives in genuine peace, Bucky would’ve grab that chance without hesitation.

“You shouldn’t do this,” Bucky murmurs, sliding his hand down the side of his face before gently cupping Steve by his cheek. A silver of blue stares at him through hooded eyes. “Kneeling while being sad. I’m not a pastor for you to sing your sorrows out, since I’m not that pure in the first place.”

“Can’t help it you make me feel as if I’m floating, though,” Steve replies, causing Bucky to flush. It makes the corner of his mouth twist up as Steve puts his hand over Bucky’s, giving him a squeeze. “As if I’m flyin’ to the moon and back. All cause you’re here.”

“All that punchin’ with Stark made you stupid in the head.” Bucky gruffs out, looking away.

“Nah, that’s just me.” Steve rises up, but he only pushes his forehead to Bucky’s, both of his hands holding onto each side of his face as if he’s afraid Bucky would slip out of his grasp again. “Come on,” Steve says quietly, and Bucky lets out a shuddering breath as he grips onto one of his wrists. “Let’s get out of here.”

When they finally did leave the Hydra facility, helicarrier lifting off the ground with Steve at the helm, Bucky finds himself digging into his pocket, and is startled to find a small doggy bag of their breakfast squashed in his jacket when he pulls it out.

The scrambled eggs might as well be more scrambled, cold and slightly rubbery from how long it’s been out when he takes a peek in. Bucky calls out to Steve, and the man only manages to turn around before Bucky’s chucking the paper bag to him that Steve is quick enough to catch it on time.

 

* * *

 

V.

 

“I don’t know what to feel about it.” Bucky admits.

Steve arches an eyebrow, touching the new beard with his less soapy hand from where he’s cleaning the dishes. “You don’t like it?”

“I don’t know how to feel about it,” Bucky repeats, still fiddling with the number of songs he saved in the phone Shuri gave him when he first time he woke up in his hut. “It’s different, that’s for sure.”

“Good different, or bad different?”

Bucky shrugs, and Steve only lets out a small huff of breath as he finishes off the last of the plates and lets it dry on the rack beside the sink.

There’s a sound system that sits prettily with the rest of the stuff going on in the place, and Bucky’s been using it to good use after a long day outside tending to the farm or goats. He’d come back tired and sweaty, put on some jazz to low volume, and collapses on his bed without changing out of his working clothes while he sleeps off his exhaustion.

It’s a good kind of tired though. He’d let his muscles strain with all the work that’s been offered and fill in his time doing these things, soaking up the morning sun with his face tilted to the skies while the breeze would card through his hair. It’s nice. He enjoys it more than he ever had the privilege of doing in the past, and the Wakandian children who would greet him everyday are a delight to see whenever they shout “Sergeant Barnes!” at the top of their lungs despite his insistence in calling him his given name.

Twice a week, Shuri would visit him and have a look into his condition. Twice a week, after she checks his vitals and make sure he isn’t in any pain, she would ask him to join her for a walk around the city and look around the skyscrapers and magnetic-levitation trains and the street life bustling with people. It’s not everyday anyone would find themselves in Wakanda, she adds cheerfully.

Every time, Bucky would refuse. It’s only been a little over a month since he woke up, and he’s still working his way through the place; discovering himself and the world around him, redefining his purpose in the stretch of field that’s been offered to him. Maybe, once she visits him again, he’ll actually say yes this time. She would love that.

This is the second time Steve drops down to Wakanda after Bucky finds himself waking up to the smell of grass. The first time he woken up, Bucky heard from Shuri that the moment Steve got a call from her to inform him that Bucky was finally awake and healed, Steve made it his mission to come by as soon as he can. Two days later, he steps out of his helicarrier with a bright look in his eyes, as if Christmas came early.

Bucky remembers trying to not flush as hard he can at the notion Steve was ever excited to see him. But Shuri smirked, patted Bucky on the shoulder, and left at the same moment Steve came jogging nearer to where Bucky and Shuri had been sitting on the bench.

The only reason Steve was late was because T’Challa wanted to see him first, and even then, Steve revealed he had been a little reluctant on agreeing to follow his Highness to his hall.

But, they’re together now, cleaning up after having dinner in this hut Bucky likes to call his. Bucky’s made some great stuffed omelette and salad, homemade, where all the ingredients are only a short walk away. He’s been picking the right herbs and washing all the fluffy lettuces and some cherry tomatoes before Steve comes knocking on his hut to announce his presence.

And then, there’s the beard.

It doesn’t help that his hair has gotten longer too; blond locks pushed back with some hair gel to keep it in place while he fills in the space of Bucky’s hut by stepping inside. He’s gorgeous, Steve has always been gorgeous. Bucky just doesn’t know how to explain the flutter in his chest when the man sports a golden beard now too.

When Edith Piaf comes purring through the speakers, Bucky lets it be, lifting his head just in time to watch the way Steve is wiping his hands dry, back turned towards him. That doesn’t stop Bucky from crossing the clearing, that doesn’t stop him from letting his head rest in between his shoulder blades and sink into his warmth like a cat in the middle of the day.

Steve pauses, looking over his shoulder. “Bucky?”

Bucky lets out a non-committal hum, and he feels the way Steve turns around so that he can wrap his arms around him, and Bucky only holds onto his waist in return.

“‘Missed you, y’know?” Bucky mumbles out, a little embarrassed from where he has his face pressed into his chest. Steve lets his hand run down his arm before allowing his palm to rest on the middle of his back. “Was wondering when you’d come by, then you suddenly called me to say you were comin’ and I made myself busy after that.”

They start to sway to the music after that, their feet not moving much than to take small steps around the floor. The evening sun comes streaming through the windows, lighting up the whole place with its bright, orange glow. The music is soothing, and the scent Bucky takes in with a deep breath smells incredibly of _Steve_ that he wants to bury himself into his embrace and never let go.

“Just for our lil’ date?” Steve jokes, letting his cheek brush against his. Bucky snorts, causing Steve to chuckle. “I thought I’d surprise you. But then, I decided to just tell you instead.”

“Still got me surprised though,” Bucky tells him. “What did the others say about you coming here?”

“They know I’m visiting you but they don’t know _where_.” Steve brings them to the middle of the clearing with a twirl. “T’Challa is very firm in making sure I don’t give out his country’s location, and I wanna respect his wishes. So, the team can ask all they want, but they got nothin’ from me.”

“Must be killin’ ‘em to not know,” Bucky muses, and Steve laughs.

“You have no idea. Nat’s itching to dig the information out of me, and Sam’s not any better. I think they’ll let it go soon.”

“Hopefully. We can’t have ‘em find out about our hideout, can we?”

“Oh?” Steve looks down at him, where Bucky meets his playful gaze. “Big hideout in someone else’s country? Sounds like any sleazy white man would say.”

“Shut up, old man, you know what I mean.” This time, it’s Bucky who laughs, and the delight that courses through his veins when he sees the twinkle in those blue eyes makes him utterly giddy. It’s wonderful as it is heinous. “You’re only lucky T’Challa lets you in, or you’ll only be seeing me through Skype and that’s not what you want.”

“That’s not what you’d want either.” Steve points out. Bucky shrugs, unable to deny the statement. “I’m glad it doesn’t come to that though. I don’t think I’d last another day without you.”

“Now you’re just being cheesy,” Bucky deadpans, and the blinding grin Steve gives make Bucky press down the urge to do the same thing. “Sayin’ things like that here. Jesus.”

“Aw, you like it—”

Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth before Steve can tease him more, before wincing slightly when the whiskers of his beard poke into his palm. Bucky runs a thumb across the line of his jaw. “You look fuzzy when you have this.”

Steve hums. “You want me to shave it off?”

Bucky only rubs his fingers across the beard, letting his eyes drop to his mouth. “Nah. I think I’m starting to like it.”

“Petting me did the job, huh?”

Bucky beams. “Maybe it did.”

Steve grunts out in surprise when Bucky clasps his fingers onto his chin and pulls him nearer for a kiss.

When Bucky kisses him, he makes sure everything he’s felt for Steve for the past seventy years comes back to them in the way Bucky holds him close. It’s cupping Steve’s face to bring him nearer than they already are, having their bodies pressed together until the space between them in nonexistent; it’s chest to chest, thighs to thighs, their touches everywhere and on each other.

When Bucky kisses him, it’s trying to bring them back to his dingy old kitchen in 1945; the harsh lights of the lone bulb shining on them, the smell of breakfast at five in the morning wafts around them, and the swirling galaxies and universe comes bearing down on them in raw ecstasy.

Steve lets out a deep breath, wrapping an arm around his waist while having his hand buried in Bucky’s hair.

After so long, it makes his heart ache in such a good way — it’s having Steve back with him, to touch him again without fearing for their lives. After so long, Bucky is able to have this man, who has been foolish enough to drag him out of Hydra’s sinking clutches time and time again, by his side.

What would he give to make this moment last a little longer than what’s been given.

Steve has to leave soon. Steve would always have to leave soon.

Bucky nips his bottom lip, and then Steve is giving him another long kiss that has Bucky gasping out a huff of laughter, desperate to have him close with his fingers buried deep in his shoulder, and he doesn’t realise they’re moving until his back hits the wall.

By then, Steve drags his mouth to his jaw, eager to taste his skin as he peppers butterfly kisses while Bucky gulps in huge amounts of breath. He’s still latching onto Steve, moving his hand to hold onto his nape when Steve sucks a mark onto the junction of his shoulder and his neck. It’s too much, too soon, and Bucky tugs him up with his fingers tangled in his hair to ravish his mouth again.

“Bucky,” Steve groans, his hand dragging down his chest before fingers splay onto his ribs, just below his heart, and it’s driving Bucky up the wall at how _good_ it is to have his warm hand against his body.

“Take a bath with me.” It’s not a question, and Steve doesn’t treat it as such when Bucky gazes at him with his heart thundering in his throat, lips red and wet. From the look on Steve’s face, Bucky can imagine the condition he’s in.

When Bucky pulls him out of the hut, he quietly prays there wouldn't be anyone near or around the lake at this time.

Sure enough, the lake is empty. No one is washing their clothes at this part of the day, and no one decides to take a dip like they’re about to.

They have the whole place to themselves.

Bucky strips, not looking back to make sure Steve does the same, letting the wrap he wears fall to the grass before he’s walking towards the lake. The water isn’t as cold as it is if it’s in the morning, and Bucky goes deeper until the water reaches to his waist, before he hears something splash behind him.

And then, a hand wraps itself around his wrist, tugging onto him until he’s turned into Steve’s hold, where he’s pulled into another kiss that’s as lovely as the last; all full lips and naked skin, the dying sun shining on them alone while the pinks and purples make their way out to expand across the sky. The birds are already squawking as they fly their way home, and the crickets are awake for the upcoming night.

Bucky snickers against his mouth, before he’s wrenching both of them into the lake that Steve lets out a shout the moment they collided against a body of water.

 

* * *

 

*

 

The only reason Bucky knows time passed as much as it did is because he can see it on Steve’s face.

Five years. For Bucky, time is relative. The snap only made it seem a day of dreamless sleep has passed rather than the five long years the Avengers had gone through. When he takes a long look at the world around, Bucky can guess just how much it was affected by the decisions of the Titan. How much it affected the people individually.

It’s done. Fifty percent of the people are brought back. Those who died under Thanos’ hands are brought back. Tony Stark, now healing and resting in the nearest hospital they could find, is hailed a hero.

“I want a celebration,” Stark croaks out the moment he opens his eyes. “For all of us. And I’m hosting it.”

“Tony.” Pepper sighs.

“No, no, no. I’m definitely doing it.” Stark lets his eyelids drop, his breathing slowing down as sleep takes hold of him again. “Just in another week or so.”

When Bucky finds Steve in Sam’s kitchen at five in the morning with bowls and pans out from their cabinets, it’s stopping himself from going out of the shadows of the bedroom they share, and he watches the condition Steve has put himself into from where Bucky’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

The only lights switched on are the ones above his head, just enough to light up the kitchen and for Steve to move around without bumping into things. Egg cartons are opened, a butter dish is brought out, and a box of pancake mix is already propped opened from where he holds it in his hand; his brows are furrowed in concentration as he reads the instructions, and he has the whisk up as if he’s holding onto a pencil.

It’s obvious Steve couldn’t sleep. Bucky’s been awake a few times to hear him twist and turn on the bed until he gave up in the end. Bucky doesn’t know when Steve walks out of the room, but when he did, the space beside him is still warm. Even without his enhanced hearing, Bucky would’ve heard the way he opens those cabinets from how it echoes throughout the whole house.

Steve tries to be gentle, but he’s still so damn loud.

Sam is kind enough to let them stay at his house before they find another place to live in. Probably an apartment somewhere in Brooklyn, just the two of them. And Bucky reminds himself to gift him something despite the overbearing need to taunt him for his choice of teacups.

It’s not surprising Sam’s sleeping like a log on the opposite room, after the battle they had gone through. He deserves it, as much as Steve deserves some rest.

But, he’s in no mood to go through that soon. The way he’s holding onto that whisk gradually changes to the same way he’s held Mjolnir the moment he gets to the end of the instructions. Bucky thinks that’s his queue to intervene, and he steps out of the darkness to greet the man who’s having trouble with early breakfast.

“I don’t get this,” Steve says without looking up. Bucky only pulls onto the chair and sits by the dining table. “It looks easy enough, but the moment I try cooking these things, it wouldn’t look like the way you or Sam or Natasha does it. It’s not fair.”

“Maybe you set the stove too high?”

“I checked that. But they’d still look,” Steve twists his lips to one side, disgruntled. “Charred.”

“Oh, Steve,” Bucky laughs softly, standing up. “Maybe I’ll help—“

“No, no. I need to learn how to do this.” Steve’s waving the whisk at his way now, and Bucky holds up his hands in defeat. “Sit down. I wanna make breakfast for you.”

“Alright,” Bucky concedes, dropping down on the chair again as Steve pulls the biggest bowl to his direction. “If you need help in anything, I’m here.”

Steve looks at him then. The furrow in his brows softens, and a small smile takes place as he steps around the table, leaning down to drop a kiss onto his forehead that Bucky feels his toes curl against the floor. “Yeah, Buck. I know.”

It’s watching Steve make the pancake mix, how he gets the flour on his shirt and pants and arms as he sifts it thoroughly. It’s watching the way he squints from where he bends halfway, making sure it follows the exact measurements before pouring it into the bowl. It’s the mixing, and the grumbling, and the smell of butter as he finally butters the pan to start cooking.

Bucky watches all of this, the chilly morning air a soft hymn that occupies the space around them, the cracking of butter on the surface of the stainless pan making a remedy in this quietness. The sun’s about to rise, a pretty thing that glows sleepily through the windows, welcoming them home.

He sinks into this warmth, into this second chance that’s been given to him with all the lavishness of a five-course meal. This is it, he knows. The blessings of a mortal finally given by whatever entity who thinks he’s finally worthy of one’s attention. The thought of dropping to his knees and weeping out his thanks crosses his mind, but Bucky waits. He waits, and he watches.

“This still isn’t working.”

Bucky purses his lips to prevent a smile from growing. “You okay?”

Steve sighs, shoulders dropping. “No.” When he peeks at Bucky, he’s silently pleading for help.

Standing up, Bucky looks over to the first batch Steve’s made stacked on a plate, and sees how they’re almost burnt, the normal circle shape disfigured into something longer.

“They look sad, I know,” Steve says, before he’s waving the spatula at the direction of another plate. “But, I did okay with the eggs, though.”

Sunny-side up. Of course.

“They’re great, Steve.” When Bucky lifts his head to meet his gaze, he sees how Steve brightens under his praise, and that makes something spread across his sternum. Then, Bucky points at the pancakes. “You still wanna do this?”

“Yeah, of course. You can eat these first if you want to,” Steve takes the plate of eggs and puts it on the dining table. “And maybe set up the table while I’ll be doin’ some damage control.”

Bucky hums in agreement. “Do you think Sam has maple syrup?”

Once the table is set and another batch of slightly decent pancakes are made, Sam comes walking out of his room with his hand rubbing onto his eye, greeting them with a yawn. “Are you making pancakes?”

“Trying to,” Steve replies.

“That sounds dangerous.” Sam switches on his coffeemaker after he gets his mug from the cabinet above his head. Turning around, he leans against the edge of the counter with a smile on his face, clearly having fun poking him. “I heard all about your little adventures in the kitchen from Nat. Especially the lasagna story.”

“Ah,” Steve says, a grimace making show as he manages to flip one pancake effortlessly. The golden brown is spotless. “The lasagna story.”

“Lemme guess,” Bucky starts, pulling one of the first few pancakes from the bottom of the pile. “You forgot about it after putting it in the oven.”

“He did! Activated the sprinklers too.” Sam passes the coffee to Steve, patting his arm. “S’okay man, the lasagna forgave you.”

Bucky nods, squeezing the maple syrup out of its bottle as he watches it drench his pancakes. “It definitely did. Also, Sam, don’t I get a mug?”

“Oh, yeah. Just a sec.”

Sam gets another empty mug from the cabinet, walks over to where Bucky sits, and puts it in front of him. Then, Sam points towards the coffee machine at the other side of the kitchen, expression carefully empty. “Get ya own coffee.”

Bucky makes a face at him.

“Careful, Sam,” Steve chuckles, finally putting the last of the pancakes on the pile before Sam comes swiping the plate off the counter. “He’s got a fork.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve handled him with a knife and some guns so he can use that fork all he wants.” Sam takes out a container from the fridge, and when he opens the cover, Bucky sees it’s full of strawberries; all red and fresh, green caps still sitting on the top.

He stabs into one the moment Sam sets it on the table, who clicks his tongue as he watches Bucky puts the whole thing in his mouth, leaves and all. “You see? Absolutely feral.”

Once Steve gets the bacon grilling, Sam has his phone connected to his speakers from the living room, it’s the three of them making absolute fools of themselves in the kitchen to Sam’s playlist. Steve passes the spatula to Bucky like a microphone, who takes over his position as cook as he sings the lyrics to Queen’s Killer Queen. Steve lets out a yelp when Sam swats a dish towel to his ass.

Bucky laughs; he laughs again when Steve quietly holds onto one of his burnt pancakes above his head when Sam has his back turned, skipping a few songs in his phone. Bucky laughs again when Steve throws said pancake straight onto Sam’s face after calling for his attention; and Bucky doesn’t stop when Sam shouts and throws the offending food back at Steve’s quickly retreating back.

When Steve passes by him, Bucky grabs onto his arm and heaves him close until they’re pressed together. It’s kissing the laughter out Steve’s mouth, one hand curled on the nape of his neck, and Steve returning the favour enthusiastically as he holds onto each side of his face, his grin wide.

“Hey, hey, _not_ in the kitchen,” Sam protests, plucking the spatula from Bucky’s fingers before taking the pan off the stove. “And you’re burning the bacon when y’all smooching in front of my stove, please _move_.”

Bucky lets his metal hand brush back the soft blond hair underneath the pad of his fingers; Shuri made sure the sensors of this hand have the same sensitivity his real hand might’ve had, making him feel more things than the limb Hydra gave him when they’re using him to their needs. It’s nice, and Bucky really needs to send her something as a thank you.

When they broke the kiss, it’s just Steve turning his head to press another onto Bucky’s palm, eyes alight with such mirth and never leaving his; it’s spectacular, it’s having his chest filled with a whole bouquet of blooming roses. Bucky knows this is what he wants, knows that he’ll carve this moment and the rest that’s sure to come on the walls of Olympus itself just to flaunt at the Gods of what he has.

He has this, he thinks, as he lets his thumb sail over the plush of that red, red mouth. He has this, Bucky thinks again, when Steve brushes strands of hair behind his ear.

“You’re finally here.” Bucky breathes quietly. It makes Steve shine like the sun itself.

“And I finally have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment to tell me what you think! This is my second attempt on writing a stucky fic after four years and I’m a little nervous on how it went.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
